This is a dark house, very big. <br />I made it myself, <br />Cell by cell from a quiet corner, <br />Chewing at the grey paper, <br />Oozing the glue drops, <br />Whistling, wiggling my ears, <br />Thinking of something else. <br /> <br />It has so many cellars, <br />Such eelish delvings! <br />U an round as an owl, <br />I see by my own light. <br />Any day I may litter puppies <br />Or mother a horse. My belly moves. <br />I must make more maps. <br /> <br />These marrowy tunnels! <br />Moley-handed, I eat my way. <br />All-mouth licks up the bushes <br />And the pots of meat. <br />He lives in an old well, <br />A stoney hole. He's to blame. <br />He's a fat sort. <br /> <br />Pebble smells, turnipy chambers. <br />Small nostrils are breathing. <br />Little humble loves! <br />Footlings, boneless as noses, <br />It is warm and tolerable <br />In the bowel of the root. <br />Here's a cuddly mother.<br /><br />Sylvia Plath<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dark-house/
